


Samaritan

by Sheilacasmam



Series: Samaritan [1]
Category: Lost, Person Of Interest - Fandom
Genre: AU, Amnesia, Angst, BAMF Harold Finch, Chasing, Crossover, Gen, Harold Finch Whump, Hurt/Comfort, Injury, Investigations, Multi, My First Fanfic, Paranormal Phenomena, Psychic Finch, Supernatural Elements, Thriller, Whump, rinch
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-03-01
Updated: 2018-04-28
Packaged: 2019-03-25 16:41:41
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 7
Words: 17,505
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13838838
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sheilacasmam/pseuds/Sheilacasmam
Summary: 2007: A man wakes up in a hospital without remembering anything about his previous life. He has no name, no family, no place where to go. All he has are the scars from the accident, and something unusual which accompanies him since his awakening.2011: A team of detectives in New York investigate on a series of crimes which, despite being already solved and archived, share the same disturbing modalities. Linking them all, the detectives begin to suspect that the work of a devious and invisible threat hides behind them.





	1. Unknown

**Author's Note:**

> I started thinking about this story some years ago, but I couldn't find a main character who inspired me enough to carry it on. When I started watching Lost in 2016, I was struck by Michael Emerson's huge talent and couldn't stop thinking about how amazing his characters were. I hope you'll enjoy finding lots of references to his movies throughout the chapters. Let me know what you think about it. ^_^

2007

_Open your eyes._  
Regency Hospital room 23 was immersed in a surreal stillness, as if time had stopped flowing. The only sound which broke the silence was the intermittent and constant electrical beeping of the machines which were keeping a man alive.  
He had been in a coma for years and everyone on the ward thought it was a miracle that he was still clinging to life, but actually no one would have ever bet on a further confirmation of that prodigy.  
One day, among the white sheets, his hand connected to the drip was crossed by a sudden shiver. The monitor began to trace a more jagged line than usual and within a few moments the heart rate increased dramatically: the man opened his eyelids with a wheeze, revealing two big blue eyes. A nurse rushed into the room and, as he found the patient in the grip of convulsions, he immediately injected him a dose of phenytoin intravenously. It took a few seconds for the medicine to take effect: the man's thin lips remained half-open under his oxygen mask, his eyelids shut slowly, his arms fell again on the mattress with no strength.  
As his tremors began to decrease, the beeping of the monitor resumed echoing smoothly and quietly: the patient sunk into his sleep again under the nurse's incredulous eyes.

“Can you hear me, sir?”  
The man lifted his eyelids with difficulty: slowly the blurred silhouette in front of him began to take shape and turned into a person dressed in white, the vague noise became a voice. Standing beside his bed, a green-eyed man was talking to him.  
“Can you understand what I'm saying?”  
The man nodded weakly, closing his eyes for a moment.  
“Very good.” the young doctor smiled. “How are you feeling? Are you in pain?”  
“... Can't ...” The man opened his arid, pale lips, but he could articulate nothing but a choked sound: his vocal cords were dozy. “Can't... feel my legs ...” he murmured in the end with a hoarse voice.  
“Unfortunately your physical conditions require rehabilitation: it may take time, but I'm sure with your tenacity you'll get back to walking. I'm Dr. Jack Shepard, what's your name?”  
“My name is...” he hesitated, realizing with astonishment that he did not know how to complete the sentence. “I don't know” he added under his breath, caught up in a sudden despair.  
“Try to tell me any other fact about you, then. For instance when you were born, where you live, your profession?”  
Once again the silence became unbearable: the man lowered his gaze and shook his head, his eyes filled with tears.  
“I'm sorry, retrograde amnesia is a common phenomenon in cases like yours.”  
“What happened?”  
“You fell from a 15 meter height. A hiker found you unconscious at the bottom of a cliff, in a mountainous area outside the city.”  
“What?” He murmured incredulously, his light blue eyes highlighted by two dark circles.  
“I have two items of news for you, sir. The good news is that you've just recovered from a third stage coma, which is a very rare event. Now you are fully conscious and out of danger. Your conditions were really critical when you were brought here six years ago.”  
“Six years? What day is it today?”  
“It's April 15, 2007, we're in Minneapolis.”  
“What about the bad news?”  
“You suffered a cranial trauma, several fractures and severe damage to your spine. Unfortunately, your cervical area and right hip are compromised irreversibly.”  
“My family ... can you tell them I've woken up?”  
Dr. Shepard 's reassuring look suddenly faded. “There is something else you need to know, sir.” He looked down for a moment, searching for the right words. The man was staring at him, getting more and more worried and confused.  
“In all these years we haven't been able to contact any of your relatives.”  
“Nobody ... came looking for me?” He asked shyly, fearing the doctor's answer. But Shepard did not say anything about that topic, his mortified look spoke enough. “When you were found you had no documents with yourself, so we tried to identify you through DNA testing. Unfortunately we didn't find any feedback.”  
Under his unkempt thick beard, the man did not say a word: a tear rolled down his cheek.  
“That's why I ask you to remember. We don't know anything about you, sir. Not even your name.”

2011

“I'm asking you for the last time, Allan Shaye. Why did you shoot your partners?”  
Agent Joss Carter sighed, thinking she had never conducted a weirder interrogation than that in her whole life. Handcuffed at the opposite side of the table, the criminal's gaze was absent while he was trying to remember.  
“It was Jim, Rob and I. The vault, we needed the combination, but the director didn't want to collaborate. Then they got angry.”  
“You've already told me this twice and know that I'm on the verge of loosing patience. Answer my question.”  
“I don't know... I don't remember.”  
“You are accused of attempted armed robbery, assault, hostage detention and kneecapping of two men. Do you really want to worsen your situation?”  
Bent over himself, the guy shaked his head slowly. “There was so much blood...”  
“Alright.” she added, lifting an eyebrow. “Tell me about when you threatened the man with glasses.”  
“What?” Shaye murmured, glancing at her distractedly.  
“The man with glasses.” She repeated, pronouncing the words slowly as if she was talking to a madman. Maybe he really was.  
“I don't know... I don't remember.”  
“Look at me when I talk to you. Understand?”  
When the guy lifted his head, Carter remained speechless: what she saw in him seemed a real bewilderment, or even a help request.  
“It was Jim, Rob and I. The vault. Jim and Rob got angry.” He repeated frantically, his eyes filled with tears, his hands shaking. “Then I saw them on the floor. All that blood... it wasn't me.” Shaye kept on with the same disjointed phrases, like a borken record. “What have I done... I can't have done that. We are friends.” he muttered, and ignoring the agent hid his head between his hands. “We are friends...”  
From the other side of the mirror, detective John Reese was watching him carefully, pondering every single word he said, when Carter entered closing the door behind her. “No way. The suspect is in a confusional state. He's not pretending, I'm sure of that.”  
“He needs a good headshrinker rather than a lawyer, then.” Fusco said, looking through the glass: rocking slightly, the robber didn't detach his eyes from the table.  
“Do we already have the results of his medical report?” Reese asked, his eyes still on the suspect.  
“He's clean, his analyses are immaculate. No trace of drugs in his blood or urine during last week.”  
“We have a problem, then.”  
“What do you mean?”  
“A thief goes insane in the middle of a robbery. He's not high on drugs, but he behaves as if he was. He gets rid of his partners and gets himself arrested. It doesn't make sense, right?”  
“No doubt about it, but you know, the world is full of nutters.” Fusco shrugged.  
“What if there was something else?”  
“What else should there be? Come on, he's only another mythomaniac who's afraid of what awaits him.” Fusco replied, pointing at the guy in tears behind the mirror.  
Still unconvinced, Reese sat in front of the computer and for the umpteenth time played the surveillance video of that afternoon. His two colleagues went close to him.  
The camera provided a broad view of the main entrance hall: a dozen of unaware hostages were neatly waiting in a row until three masked men began to spread panic with their assault rifles. Everyone knelt on the ground without hesitation, only one of them kept standing: a man with glasses. It was then that Shaye reached him and, shoving him with his weapon, he forced the hostage to sit down. A few moments later, the criminal turned and took a few steps towards his accomplices, who were busy in threatening the director. The quality of the video got grainy for a few seconds, but the image got stabilized just in time, showing Shaye's next move. He reached them from behind with an unnatural slowness, stopped a few inches from them, then aimed at their legs and opened fire. The video clip had no audio, but judging by the hostages' reaction, a chorus of terrified screams followed the series of gunshots. Stepping on his agonizing accomplices' blood, the traitor dropped his rifle to the ground and stood motionless with his eyes fixed in front of him. The SWAT bursted in right after and when two agents jumped on him, Shaye felt to the ground without opposing the slightest resistance: only while he was being handcuffed he started to struggle.  
“Observe him carefully and tell me what you see.” the detective said, with an incomprehensible look on his face.  
Fusco thought about it for a while, then began: “A nutter who betrays his accomplices and surrenders to get a sentence reduction?”  
“An automaton.” Carter said, taking the clip back of a few frames. Reese's green eyes shined for a moment. “Exactly. There's something unnatural in him, in his movements.”  
Fusco shook his head. “Not following. What's your point?”  
“I don't know, but something is happening.” Reese got out the office without adding a word, among his colleagues' perplexed looks.  
A few minutes later he came back bringing some files. “Shaye's case sounded immediately familiar to me, so I did a quick research.” He explained, flooding the desk with papers and folders. “Aggression in nightclub, domestic violence, dynamite attack in the subway. They've all been foiled in the last months.”  
Fusco shook his head, resigned. “The world is so full of nutters.”  
“All the suspects have been caught, therefore all cases have been filed as solved, but I'm not convinced. Each arrested criminal showed acts of self-harm and mental imbalance that prevented them from completing the offense, in addition to symptoms such as delusions and post-traumatic amnesia. In some of the individuals the effects have remained in the long run.”  
“Okay, that's creepy.”Fusco admitted.  
Joss took the dossiers, browsing them. “Just like Shaye. Do you think they're all linked?”  
“I'm sure of that.”  
“In the meantime, let's see if the eyewitnesses have something useful for us, starting by him.” she said, zooming on the man with glasses.


	2. Henry

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 2007: During his recovery, the unidentified patient meets his new roommate, who will give him a new name.  
> 2011: Detective Carter reconstructs the events after the bank robbery by talking to the eyewitness, Mr Gull. In the meanwhile, John finds out 15 analogous cases happened throughout the years: all the offenders showed delusions and acts of self-harm which prevented them to commit their crime.

2007

 

Two small birds were pecking at the crumbs on the window sill. From his wheelchair, the patient in room 23 was watching them silently. He was still pale and drained, but despite his fragility he preserved a refined, almost aristocratic attitude. With slight physique, his thick mousy beard had covered his face over the years, two thin scars crossed his lower lip.

Every day he used to receive some crackers with his meal: the man would barely taste them, then reduce them into small pieces that he would leave on the window sill. Then he would wait.

“I guess those cardinals love you.” Shepard said coming in.

“They're not cardinals, they're finches.” The man replied, without turning around.

“Well, from now on you'll have a new roommate besides them.” The doctor continued, helping the nurse bring in a bed with a sturdy sixty year old man on it.

“Don't forget Mr. Gale, atenolol in the morning, donepezil after meals, hydralazine only in the evening and quinapril before sleep. Okay?”

“Got it, Doctor.” The newcomer answered with a deep, gruff voice, running a hand through his thick gray hair.

“Good. Call me if you need anything.” When Shepard walked away with a folder under his arm, the sturdy man chuckled. “Jesus, I'm given so many pills a day that I could use them as checkers in backgammon.” he said, turning towards the man on the wheelchair. Quiet and immobile, he seemed not to hear him. He kept looking out the window.

“You know, my heart has been a little fickle lately...” said the chatty patient, widening the collar of his gown until he uncovered a considerable scar on his chest.

“I'm sorry, I wish you a quick healing.”

“Don't worry, a bad weed never dies.” he winked, but his smirk faded as soon as he noticed that the patient on the weelchair was crying in silence. A tear rolled down his cheek.

“Hey, we'll get out of here very soon, you'll see.”

The man dried his eyes with the back of his hand and turned to him, rotating his whole chest because of his spinal damage. “I don't want to.”

“Why not?”

“I wouldn't even know where to go.”

“What happened to you?”

“Since I'm awake I can't remember anything.”

“Your relatives, your friends... Don't you recognize them?”

“They have never come.”

The new roommate didn't say anything: any word would have been in the way. He took a tissue from his night table, stood up clumsily and dragging his drip-feed he moved close to him. The man in the weelchair lifted his eyes towards the giant who was handing him out the tissue, a slight astonishment seeped through his eyes. “Thank you.” he replied, letting a kind smile slip.

“I'm Tom, by the way.” he said while shaking hands. “What's your name?”

“Unfortunately I don't remember that either.”

“Well, look at the positive side: let's assume your parents gave you a horrible name, since today you will be free to call yourself whatever you want.”

The man with no name let a chuckle slip. “You might give me one, if you want.” he added.

Tom looked at him for a moment, scratching his chin with his fingers.

“Let's see ... What about Henry?”

The man raised his gaze to the ceiling, then smiled. “Henry. It sounds good.”

 

2011

 

At number 42 of Madison Avenue there was a high and distinguished building of white bricks. Arranging her scarf to protect herself from the cold which ran over the streets of New York, Carter approached the intercom, scrutinized it for a moment and rang at the name “Gull”. A few moments later, the device crackled: “Who is it?”

“Joss Carter, NYPD. I would have some questions about the robbery of yesterday afternoon.”

“Fourth floor.” the voice added, opening the front door.

When the agent reached the landing, the eyewitness' door was already half open.

“Mr. Gull?” Carter asked, slightly pulling it aside: what sounded like the whistle of a teapot came from the bottom of the corridor. As soon as she walked into the entrance hall she was welcomed by a pleasant warmth and the scent of paper: in front of her a wall covered with books and encyclopedias, solid wood furniture and many antique objects: some handcrafted tribal masks decorated the wall.

The whistle ceased and an eccentric man cropped up from the kitchen: in addition to having a funny upward tuft and long sideburns, he was wearing a pair of round glasses and an elegant brown checkered vest. “Good morning agent, please make yourself at home.” He approached her, dragging a weak leg with a limp. After he greeted her with a handshake, he led her to the living room.

“I apologize for the disturbance caused sir, I'll try not to take too much of your time.”

“No problem at all, detective: may I offer you a cup of green tea by chance?” The man asked with an amiable smile.

“Gladly, thank you.”

They sat facing each other, then Carter pulled out a pen and a notepad.

“I know it won't be pleasant, but I should ask you a testimony about the events of yesterday afternoon.”

Under his round glasses, Mr. Gull's blue eyes clouded. “Of course, I understand.”

“Why were you at the bank?”

“I needed to make a wire transfer.” Gull lowered his voice, slightly embarrassed. “It's because of a fine, I must confess: a parking violation.”

“Don't worry, I won't arrest you for this one.” Carter joked with a smile. “I know that after what happened you fainted. How are you today?”

“I've been having a heart condition for years, therefore a fright like yesterday's can have serious consequences on my health, but today I feel definitely better.” He paused, pouring some steaming tea into their cups. His hand trembled slightly. “You see, I'm also easily impressionable and now I'm afraid to visit public places, shops, subways ... Yesterday's facts made me understand how vulnerable we are, and at the same time how valuable life is.”

“I see. Is this the first time you witness a robbery?”

“Yes. And I hope it's the last time as well.” he replied, lifting his eyebrows.

“May you tell me what you saw exactly? We're trying to reconstruct the events from different viewpoints.”

After a small sip, Mr Gull dampened his lips with the tip of his tongue, then laid his cup of tea. “I had my back turned when I heard the first shots: they fired against the ceiling in order to intimidate us, and suddently I found myself among people who screamed and ran in search of a shelter. There were three men in balaclavas. One of them monitored us, the others approached a man who worked there and started hitting him with the handle of their rifles, over and over again. I was frightened, I feared they would have killed him.”

Carter listened to him carefully, mentally recording every single word. “According to the surveillance recordings, when the three robbers broke in everyone crouched down by instinct: why didn't you do the same?”

“I guess speed and agility are not my forte: I have a gait impairment. But especially, I was so terrified...” he paused, then put himself together and, ignoring the stitch of anguish that was pressing on his chest, he continued. “I was so terrified that I was no longer able to move. I felt my legs tremble, and ... when one of them came to me, pressing the barrel of his rifle against my neck ... I really feared I would have never gone back home.” Gull detached his watery eyes from hers, then stared at the picture on the table: it portrayed a red-haired woman smiling at her little baby in her lap. “Do you have family, detective?” The man asked, his delicate voice pervaded by a new tenderness.

“A 15 year old little man. For what it's worth, I can assure you that I fully understand what you experienced in that moment.”

Gull smiled kindly before taking another sip of his tea.

“How did it happen?” Carter added, pointing at his lame leg.

“I had a bad accident some years ago. I was going to work when a truck driver lost his vehicle's control, invading the opposite lane. My lane.”

“I'm sorry. What line of work are you in?”

“I work for an insurance company.”

“There's something else I'd like to ask you: when the robber approached you, did you notice something unnatural in him?”

Gull lifted his eyes to the ceiling, deep in thought. “I don't know, detective... He had a ski mask on, I didn't get a good look at his face. Maybe he was high on drugs, but I wasn't alert enough to think, actually. The only thing I remember was that I thanked the Lord at the sight of the SWAT who captured him. Then I think I lost consciousness, I don't remember much else.”

“Of course.” Carter nodded sympathetically. “Thank you for the time you have dedicated to me, Mr. Gull.”

“You're welcome, detective.” The man smiled, accompanying her to the door. “For any further information feel free to contact me.”

She took her leave with a handshake and while she was going down the stairs, Carter turned and told him: “Anyway, best wishes for your beautiful baby girl.”

Mr. Gull answered with a kind smile, which immediately faded as soon as Carter turned her back.

 

Absorbed in reading the reports, Fusco flinched at the sharp noise of the stack of folders that Reese dropped on his desk. Detaching his hand from his cheek with vague indignation, Lionel glared at him, looked down at that tower of documents, then glared at him again and addressed him a sincere: “What the hell?”

Even though he had always been an enigmatic and imperturbable policeman, John seemed euphoric as never before. “Fifteen. Fifteen cases bond by the same modality. I spent a whole night on this, but now we are certain that there's a lead we've never been able to see.”

“You should start drinking less coffee, Wonderboy. I think it's bad for you.”

Ignoring his coworker, Reese scattered the sheets on the table: “The first case I found dates back to January 27, 2008: Minnesota, a thief shot his own foot while threatening the cashier of a minimarket. Odd coincidence, don't you think?”

“Well...”

“And look at these instead.” Reese continued, without giving him time to reply. “Other three analogous cases during 2008. All of them concern the same geographical area, the following ones happened in different States: Iowa, Alabama, California, until ending up in New York.”

Fusco took the dossier in his hands and put his glasses on. “I don't understand what drives them to do what they do.”

“And what if it didn't depend on something, but on _someone_?”

“Are you telling me a friendly neighborhood Samaritan is going to eliminate all the criminals in the city?”

“People don't go insane out of the blue, Lionel. Especially in case of an ongoing violation. Think about it: every involved person has nothing in common with the others but the fact that they are criminals. _Somebody wants to punish them_.”

“Yours is a hazardous theory, John.” Fusco crossed his arms on his chest, skeptical.

“This is exactly why we only see them now, after all these years: if you are invisible and nobody knows you exist, nobody can come looking for you.”

“Alright, John. Let's suppose this genius exists for real. Now explain to me how they convince them that sticking a bullet into your own foot is so pleasant.”

“It's just a theory, but I believe they're someone able to brainwash them. I don't know how they can do it, but they're damn good at it.” Reese handed him the other dossiers. “The last six cases occurred among the boroughs of Brooklyn, Queens and Manhattan, and judging by their routine we now know where they live.”

Fusco opened his arms with all the sarcasm he was capable of: “Wow, that's fantastic. You know, New York is just a small town of 8 million and a half inhabitants, catching a suspect of whom we don't even know the face must be a piece of cake.”

“It's not much, but still a start. And if we were able to recover all the old surveillance recordings, we would have a great advantage on them.”

“That would be really great.” Fusco nodded enthusiastically.

Suddenly a mischievous smile flashed on Reese's face. “Lionel,” the detective continued, smoothing the hem of his elegant black suit with indifference: “I think that you would definitely find what suits our case in the archive. I suggest you get started right away, 15 cases are so many. Good work.” Without giving him time to reply, John patted his shoulder and walked away, while his friend's protests reached him from behind.

“Hey, why is the most boring stuff always my turn? I am a man of action!”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here is the second chapter of my story, I hope you're enjoying it. Feel free to let me know what you think about it. :)  
> P.S: If you think I messed up with tags (especially relationship ones), I totally agree with you. For any kind of questions, just ask me! ;)


	3. Mr Gull

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 2007: Henry can now stand on his own legs but the signs the accident left on his body are indelible. Even that day, he looks in the mirror and a stranger returns his gaze. A sudden illness makes him loose consciousness: a pain had grown inside him, but he knows it belongs to someone else.  
> 2011: The detectives analyze an old surveillance video from 2008, the first case of the long series. After the criminal shoots himself in the foot, all hostages run away as fast as they can. All except one, because instead of running, one of them is limping.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here is a new chapter, I hope you'll like it! Feel free to tell me your opinions. :)

2007

 

“Still one last effort, you've almost made it.”

The hospital ward seemed endless: Henry -so his room mate had nicknamed him- had crossed it back and forth at least four times with slow, hard-earned steps, trying not to use his crutches. Next to him, Tom was supporting him promptly by grabbing his torso whenever he lost his balance.

“Thank you, Tom.”

“Don't mention it.” the man replied, handing the crutches to him and patting on his shoulder. “You're a real badass. I mean, you fell from a ravine, you got out from coma and only a month later you're already standing on your legs. Tell me, are you allergic to kryptonite?”

In that moment, a woman with two children appeared from the bottom of the ward: Tom recognized them, then smiled and greeted them from afar. “My daughter with my grandchildren.” he said with a certain pride. Henry turned to them with a smile, but Tom spotted a great melancholy in his eyes.

“Hey, I'm sure you will soon remember everything and find your family again.”

Henry looked up at him. “I don't remember if I have one.”

“In any case, you will always be welcome in mine.”

Henry's eyes grew bigger: a grateful, incredulous smile slowly widened on his face. He followed him with his gaze as he walked away: “Thank you” he whispered, but Tom was already too far to hear him. He saw him wrap all three in his hug, lift the kids and put them on his shoulders to play: Henry thought Tom was lucky to have them, and they were lucky to have Tom.

He went back to his room and locked himself in the bathroom. He closed his eyes and let out a tired sigh, touching the door behind him with his nape.

He had forced himself so many times to remember who he was, but every time he could not go beyond the moment he had awakened on an anonymous hospital bed.

Leaning on the wall, he limped towards the mirror: a perfect stranger returned his gaze.

He brought a hand to his face and felt his sunken cheeks, studying himself carefully as a fighter would do with his enemy, then took his green gown off, in search of any clue about his own past, his own identity. His frail body carried the signs of surgery: a considerable scar crossed his right kidney, his damaged hip was studded with furrows on his skin. He took a hand behind his neck, gently touching the small bumps along his spine with a grimace of pain: the metal prostheses between his vertebrae interrupted at the height of his shoulder blades.

More and more lost, he felt trapped in a stranger's body.

He entered the shower stall and turned on the tap; he let the water run over him, hoping to wash his greatest fear away.

_What if I couldn't remember for the rest of my life?_

Suddenly the light went away for a few moments.

Henry felt an odd malaise growing inside him. It was like the memory of a distant pain. So distant that it felt like someone else's pain.

With a flickering glow, the light bulb turned on again.

He opened his eyes, and suddenly gasping he brought a trembling hand to his left arm: the pain made its way in him, becoming so intense that it felt real.

On the edge of an energy overload, the bathroom lamp produced an almost blinding light.

The pain became unbearable while Henry started feeling an odd taste on his tongue: he brought a hand to his lips and found his fingertips covered in blood.

The lamp glow dimmed drastically and the bathroom returned to its usual feeble light.

He slipped downwards, exausted. Under the running water he tried to ask for help, but he only emitted a faint moan that no one heard. His eyelids became heavy, then everything became dark.

 

2011

 

Fusco pressed play and launched the recording. The pictures were dull and blurry, but it was all they had. The on-screen text reported the date of January 27, 2008: from the perspective of the camera placed in a high corner of the store, the anonymous minimarket was almost deserted. A cashier was dealing with a customer's purchases, other four people were wandering among the shelves, perhaps looking for some cheap snacks: an elderly man, a woman in her thirties, a guy in a sweatshirt, a man in a black coat. It seemed like an ordinary tedious afternoon, until the guy in a sweatshirt, after a certain hesitation, took courage and walked quickly toward the cashier's desk. He pulled his hand out of the pocket of his jeans, revealing a gun which he pointed against the employee.

“He looks inexperienced.”

“The inexperienced are the most dangerous.”

In tears, the woman tried to open the cash register as quickly as possible but her agitation prevented her to do that: the more she cried, the more the guy shouted, shaking his weapon a few inches from her face.

“Stop: take it back of two seconds.” Reese leaned toward the screen. At that very instant, the criminal had raised his head at once, as he was attracted by something.

After a slight quiver the video continued, now showing a blank, absent thief: even if he was still holding his arm raised in front of him, he had stopped shaking his gun. He stood still in that position for a few moments, his face unnaturally turned to an undefined point of the room: his eyes were not aimed at the woman anymore. Losing any interest in his loot, the guy in a sweatshirt lowered his arm firmly, pointed the weapon to the ground and without the slightest facial expression pressed the trigger. The bullet pierced his left shoe, the blood spurts stained the counter. At the gunshot, the cashier backed away terrified: the thief had regained consciousness and fell in tears with a grimace of pain, curled in a puddle of blood while clutching his shattered foot.

“Jesus ... It's really frightening.” Lionel whispered, with an astonished look on his face.

Reese grabbed the mouse and took the video clip back, until he found the point he was looking for.

“At this moment the guy loses his mental capacity. He seems remote-controlled.”

“Hey, wait a minute... zoom in on here.” Lionel pointed his finger at a side of the screen.

The freeze-frame captured shelves, some crouched down hostages, the thief and the woman at the counter. However, only now the three cops' attention was focused on a detail that had stood in the background until then: a mirror behind the cashier.

“That's where the guy is staring at.”

Unconcerned by the pixels which ruined the frame quality, Reese kept zooming in on the mirror and restarted the video.

“Damn, can't see a thing! My grandma would see better than this.” Fusco yelled.

“Be patient, Lionel...”

The image stabilized and they finally managed to distinguish a dark silhouette: between the shelves the man in a coat could be glimpsed, standing with his hands up.

Reese's eyes were aimed at that figure dressed in black. It was impossible to distinguish the features of his face, but he noticed something else: a tiny black hole appeared among the pale pixels of that face.

“He said something.”

They brought the frame back: the movement was quick, he opened his mouth to say a few syllables.

“I don't think it's a relevant detail. I mean, it's just another hostage screaming.”

“You're right, Lionel. We're only loosing time.” Reese concluded, with a bitter tone of voice.

Despite being disturbed by intermittent waves, the video went on until the end, until the thief fell harmless to the ground and all the hostages ran out of the store: all except one, because instead of running, the man in a coat was _limping_.

“Oh no...” Carter muttered, suddently alarmed.

“What's wrong, Joss?”

“Restart it from the beginning: I want all the frames where the lame appears.”

“Am I missing something?” Lionel asked.

“I'm not sure.”

They reviewed the video, but this time Carter watched it from another perspective.

Seen from above, the man in a coat finally appeared in an aisle: he looked around, approached a shelf and stood there for several minutes without ever moving, picking up a few packs of cookies and checking the clock from time to time. All of a sudden the guy in a sweatshirt passed behind him, headed to the counter: the man in a coat followed him with his gaze rotating his whole chest, then moved a few steps and disappeared from the angle of the camera. Meanwhile, the thief appeared in another frame with the gun in his hand, while in the mirror the man in a coat moved forward slowly, from the bottom of the room with his hands up.

“He lied to me.” Carter seemed almost offended.

“Do you know him, Joss?”

The detective nodded. “Just imagine him with glasses. It's Gull, the eyewitness.”

Reese frowned, observing closely the freeze-frame of the man in a coat, now immortalized in profile: sharp, pronounced nose, high cheekbones, a tuft of mousy hair fell on his broad forehead. Despite being a few years younger and with a different hairstyle, now Reese couldn't not notice that it was him.

“Always in the wrong place at the wrong time. He told me he had never witnessed a robbery before.”

“Wait, we can't accuse him just for that. We have nothing to show for it.”

“Of course not, Lionel, but I don't believe in coincidences.” Reese got up and worn his elegant black coat. “When in doubt, I would pay him a visit.”

 

The patrol Chevrolet speeded fast on Madison Avenue and stopped with a screech of tires on the asphalt. The three police officers got out of the car, climbed the stairs until reaching the fourth floor and knocked hard.

“Harold Gull, open the door: NYPD.” Fusco ordered.

Nobody answered.

“Mr Gull, if you don't collaborate we'll break down the door.” he shouted, ready to grab his pistol.

The silence endured and Fusco drew his weapon from its holster, and holding it firmly with both hands kicked the door.

Once inside, they remained speechless.

“It's not possible...” Carter goggled, incredulously.

Around them, the absolute nothing.

The apartment was utterly vacant: where Joss had smelled the scent of books and tea, she now only perceived the chemical smell of plaster; where she had seen solid wood shelves and refined pieces of furniture, she now only saw bare monochrome walls.

She took her phone and dialed Gull's number: a few seconds passed before hearing the automatic voice of a non existent number. While the rage in Joss's eyes spoke for her, Reese's tense look slowly relaxed, turning into a bitter smile: he had been in front of their eyes since the start, as invisible as only a victim could have been.

“Son of a bitch...” Fusco let slip.

“There's no Harold Gull. I did a mistake in trusting him.”

“It's not your fault, Joss. You couldn't know that.”

“Look at the positive side: now we know on who to investigate.”

They climbed down the stairs and went back to the car silently. “If Gull likes to play hide and seek, we'll investigate on who's around him. Starting from the robber at the minimarket.” A sullen Reese suggested.

“When I talked with him he seemed sincere.”

John turned to her, crossed by an idea. “Joss, you're an expert in interrogations. If he seemed sincere to you maybe it's because he didn't lie about everything. He knew he was only a victim to us, he could have given something away.”

Carter thought about it for a while. “You're right.”

Reese lied a hand on her shoulder and looked at her eyes. “We have nothing about this man, except his testimony. What did he tell you? Even one detail could make the difference.”

“He said he works for an insurance company, but he surely lied. He became lame because of a car accident. He's sort of quirky: he struck me for his dapper clothes, his refined manners, and...” she stopped, uncertain.

“What else?”

Carter narrowed her eyes to focus on her memory. “He has a daughter. There was a frame on the table. It was that detail that convinced me: the photograph of a woman with a baby in her lap. He looked at it with tenderness, I believe he's really fond of those people.”

Reese remained silent for a moment, absorbed. “A family man doesn't usually disappear into thin air.”

 


	4. Asylum

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 2007: Tom finds Henry's inert body, pale and with a rivulet of blood dripping from his nose. When the unnamed patient wakes up, doctor Shepard listens to his absurd, disturbing memory without believing it, but in the end a detail of his story upsets him.  
> 2011: The three detectives visit Geremy Rankin, the minimarket robber. Interned in an asylum, his face is horribly disfigured, but soon they will find out that Geremy himself did it for a reason.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Finally I found a little time to translate this new chapter, I hope you'll like it. Feel free to let me know about your opinions, and my several grammar mistakes (I know they are hiding there, somewhere), so I could improve the next times. ^_^

2007

 

Tom had already gone back to his bed for a while. He was patiently waiting for Henry to finish taking a shower, but as his roommate did not get a move, in the end he got up and knocked on the door.

“Hey Henry, are you going to leave some water to the rest of the planet Earth or do you want it all for you?”

No reply.

Tom rolled his eyes then knocked again, harder.

“Come on Henry, I need the toilet.”

Henry did not reply that time either: at that moment Tom suddenly realized with horror that the roar of water had always been too regular for all that time.

“Oh my God, Henry!”

He turned the handle, but the door was locked from the inside. He immediately pounched on it: with his sturdy build, two firm shoves were sufficient to unhinge it and enter.

Stumbling for the leap, Tom found himself in front of what he would have never wanted to see.

Henry's inert body lied huddled against the steamed-up glass of the shower stall. Ignoring his heart hammering in his chest, Tom ran to him but when he saw him he shuddered, backing off instinctively: his head was bowed on his chest, his skin of a worrisome paleness, but above all the water that stagnated under him had taken a reddish color. He immediately turned the faucet off and, overcoming his phobia for blood, he grabbed his friend's slight body by under his arms and dragged him out of there. His drenched face was crossed by a rivulet of blood dripping from the nostrils to the throat. “Come on buddy, answer me!” he repeated desperately, taking his chin between his fingers and shaking it weakly: he was breathing, but did not react. With that frail body on his lap, Tom started shouting for help.

 

From the dark, the senses resurfaced slowly and gently, one after the other.

Something soft and cool was pressing on his forehead. He opened his eyes but he immediately squinted, as if light was suddenly unbearable. As the daze in his mind thinned out, Henry realized that he was under the blankets of his bed: his neck was stiff, but he looked around as he could. Somebody had put a new white polka-dot gown on him, in addition to a blood-pressure machine that was now inflating around his arm, until it made his veins pulsate. He tried to wiggle out of it weakly, but the supervisor's voice immediately scolded him. “Hold still.” Shepard finished writing something down on his folder, then freed him from the annoying grip of that device. “You suffered a violent hypertension attack accompanied by fever and epistaxis.Your blood values were completely upset until a few minutes ago, but they are returning to normality with an impressive rapidity.”

“Doctor…” he murmured weakly, looking for him from the corner of his eye. Henry watched him while he was focused on pouring a vial into a syringe, then he asked him with a whisper: “How are you?”

Shepard raised his gaze towards him, stopping with the syringe between his fingers. “This I should ask you instead.”

“I have seen... I'm starting to remember...” he mumbled under his breath. Shepard leaned toward him to hear him clearer, his green eyes crossed by an unexpected hope. “I'm listening.”

The patient hesitated, his livid lips tightened in a frightened expression. “Among the trees... there was some gunfire, then... lost so much blood...”

“Who lost so much blood, Henry?” the doctor asked him in return: absorbed in his memory, the unnamed man seemed absent, until he turned to the young doctor with a desperate gaze. Marked by dark circles, Henry's blue eyes had acquired a different, almost sinister light.

“ _You._ ”

Shepard remained speechless for a moment, then moved the ice bag away and laid a hand on his forehead, framed by his soaked hair: it was still burning. “You're delirious, you have a high fever.” He gave the syringe a flick and with a quick and precise gesture injected a sedative in his arm. “This will help lower your temperature.” The doctor was about to get up when Henry insisted once again, grabbing his wrist with a sudden movement. “No!”

Shepard wrinkled his forehead, surprised by the terror that shined through the unnamed patient's eyes.

“The wound on your arm. I remember... I _felt_ it...” he whispered with bloodshot eyes.

“Henry, listen to me.” Shepard sat down again next to him, freeing himself from his grip. “Sometimes our mind can play strange tricks on us, especially in such medical conditions. Perhaps your memories are actually re-emerging and this is a good thing, but they overlap making you believe that unreal events have happened for real. I've never been involved in a shooting, maybe you associated my face with some acquaintance of yours, or maybe it was just a nightmare. Don't worry, the sedative I've given you will do you good. It will help you sleep.” While Shepard was heading to the door, Henry felt trapped in the tempting numbness of the drug, but before his energies abandoned him again, he managed to lift a shaking hand, pointing his index finger at the doctor's left arm: “It was that one... the one with the Chinese symbols...”

Shepard's heart skipped a beat: he stopped on the door, his hand still on the handle. His perplexed gaze suddenly changed, giving rise to an unusual concern. He turned towards the patient, but dazed by the sedative he had already fallen asleep stammering incomprehensible words.

Despite his extreme meekness, that man had the power to upset him. The young doctor left room 23 and closed the door: he slowly walked away along the ward, wondering how he could know about his tattoo, perennially hidden under his white coat.

 

2011

 

The hallway of Santa Rosa was entirely paved with white tiles, a color that the guests of the facility found soothing. The neon lights lit up one after the other, while from a distance the steps of a doctor and three visitors echoed along the entire length of the ward.

“When I said I had always wished to visit Los Angeles, I didn't exactly mean this.” Fusco grumbled under his breath.

“You see, our mental health center hosts over a hundred patients with tough stories behind them, but who you are looking for is an undoubtedly peculiar case.” The doctor said, leading the way.

“We know that, after the facts of January, 2008, Geremy Rankin was initially brought to prison. Why was he transferred here?”

“You see, detective, as I've already told you our patient has a very unusual clinical picture, and he didn't delay to prove so. After the traumatic event which marked the downfall of his mental faculties, Mr Rankin kept repeating disconnected and meaningless sentences all day long, every day of his detention.”

Reese and Carter looked at each other silently, but both had the same thought in mind: Shaye's delirious, repetitive discourse.

“Initially it was thought to be a stratagem to obtain a sentence reduction, until one day he tried to hurt himself seriously.” The doctor explained. “Since then, the warden asked us.”

“How exactly did he try to hurt himself?”

The doctor stopped for a while, turning to the detectives. “You will see for yourself.”

Speechless, they went ahead along the silent ward.

“Doctor Erickson, did you inspect his health condition?” Carter asked shortly after.

“Of course, detective. According to his MRI, several areas of his brain resulted gravely damaged: particularly the cerebellum, responsible for the coordination of movements, and the frontal lobes, which regulate conscious thought and executive functions.”

The memory of the surveillance videos crossed the minds of the three agents like a lightning: those images would remain etched in their minds forever.

Carter broke silence again. “According to the doctors, what could the causes of such a damage be?”

“The doctors thought it could be a rare and fulminant disease, but actually they have never been able to give a concrete explanation about it: Rankin's case is one in a million. It is as if his brain was struck by a violent electrick shock. Or worse, by _an invisible demon_. But we do know it couldn't have happened.” Doctor Erickson joked, while the detectives answered with a forced smile. Fusco loosened his tie, ignoring his tachycardia.

Finally the doctor pulled a set of keys out of the pocket of his lab coat and stopped in front of one of the metal doors, the number 42.

“Before you meet him, I should warn you.” He explained, before turning the key in the keyhole. “Mr Rankin is an unstable subject, he talks a lot to himself and interacts a little with other people, but if you use a simple language he will understand you. Even though I doubt he will be actually useful for your investigation: nobody ever managed having a conversation with him.”

“We'll see, doctor.” Lionel added, with a vaguely bitter tone in his voice.

The lock unlocked with a metallic clunk and the door opened, showing a glimpse of the room. The three agents looked around in silence: everything was white, from the walls to the furniture.

“Hello Gerry. I'm with some friends today.” The doctor talked to him with the tone he would use with a child.

The tiny room had a basic furniture: a simple bed, a desk and a night table. Then they saw him.

Seated on the floor and crouched in a corner, Geremy was barefoot: he had a blue pajamas an a pair of sunglasses on. His dark, spiky hair of the old recordings had become shoulder-length, his left foot deformed by a considerable scar, round and deep.

“Why don't you seat on your bed? It's way more comfortable, you know?” The doctor continued with an accomodating smile. Gerry ignored him, as he ignored the three strangers who were staring at him with a mix of anguish and pity.

“Why the sunglasses?” Carter asked in low voice, in order not to unsettle the patient's stillness. The doctor crouched down by his side, and with careful movements removed those dark lenses from his face.

In front of that slaughter, Reese and Carter remained speechless, Fusco looked away and scratched his curls with a hand.

A dozen of scars crossed Rankin's eyelids: an eye was completely red, its pupil nearly missing.

“As I already mentioned before, one day he tried to hurt himself. During the lunch hour he broke a glass and attempted to pull his own eyes out with a shard. He almost succeeded, only one eye remained undamaged.”

“Thank you, doctor. Could you now please leave us alone for a moment?”

“If you need anything, just call me: I'll be waiting outside.” he replied, closing the door behind him.

Carter knelt in front of the patient, still and absent.

“Hello Geremy, my name is Joss. I want to ask you if you could help us in finding a person.”

The patient did not move a muscle, closed in his mutism.

“Now I'll show you some photos, we want to know if you know this man.”

The patient kept staring at an undefined point on the wall, while the detective pulled Gull's photographs out her bag.

“Be kind, Gerry, just a quick look. Could you do this for me?” Carted asked with an almost maternal sweetness, and the patient finally obeyed.

He hardly detached his devastated eye from the corner, but when he laid it on the freeze-frame his impassive expression turned into pure terror. The man started to scream and with a sudden movement jumped on the detective. Falling backwards, she immediately felt breathless: Geremy was chocking her with an unexpected rage.

“I'm not afraid of you anymore, darkness is my friend!” he shouted at the top of his lungs, sinking his fingers on her neck.

“No!” Her two colleagues pounced on him immediately grabbing his arms and freeing Carter from that insane man's grip.

“Don't touch her!” Furious, Reese smashed him a fist that broke his nasal septum: Geremy lost his balance, falling backwards splattered with blood.

The dazed patient found the barrel of a pistol just a few inches away from his face: Fusco was keeping him under control by holding his gun firmly in his hands, while Carter was catching her breath and coughing. Reese helped her get up.

“I'm fine... it's nothing.” she said then, stroking her own throat.

Only then the door bursted open and doctor Erickson appeared, wide-eyed and out of breath. “What happened?”

 

Ten minutes later, Geremy Rankin was on his bed, with a red-stained cotton swab inside his nostril and a white straight-jacket, matching the rest of the room.

Fusco tilted his head slightly: “Looks like he's taken it quite well.” he said, noticing the usual absent expression on Geremy's face.

This time it was John who talked to him.

“ _I'm not afraid of you anymore, darkness is my friend._ ” The detective repeated. “What does it mean, Geremy?” He asked, without obtaining the slightest reaction.

“The man in the photo. It's him who you are afraid of, isn't he?”

The patient said nothing, but he slighlty opened his lips, as if he was on the verge of saying something.

“What did he do to you?”

Geremy closed his one good eye and started murmuring something. Reese crouched beside him to listen: his words were barely audible.

“Don't look at him... don't look... never in the eyes...” he was chanting.

Reese frowned, and thinking back of the various cases he was crossed by a shiver: the hypothesis that it could be something more than the delirium of an insane man was turning into a certainty.

“Is it his fault if you tried to pull your eyes out, in order not to see him again?”

The patient squeezed his eyes harder. “Out... out of my head...”

With the adrenaline growing in his chest, Reese asked the next question.

“Do you prefer the darkness of blindness, in order not to _obey him_ anymore?”

The patient broke down, bursting into tears.

Reese turned to his partners and saw his same anguish on their faces. He waited Geremy to calm down before continuing.

“Did you know him?”

The patient shook his head slowly, first to the left, then to the right.

“Okay, you didn't. But he told you something that day. When you saw him in the mirror. Remember?”

He frowned fearful and started singing softly to himself, lifting his sight to the ceiling.

“Geremy, look at me. I know it's painful, but if you want us to stop who did this to you, you have to help us.”

He just kept singing through his tears, avoiding his gaze.

“He's scared to death, let's leave him alone.” Carter suggested.

“You're right. Maybe it's better.” The detective got up resigned and headed to the exit with his partners.

The doctor was on the point of closing the door when suddently the patient replied: “Gerry.”

In the middle of the ward, Reese stopped and went back to the doorway.

“Gerry.” the man repeated. “He called me by my name. He _knew_ my name! But now he doesn't scare me anymore, he can't enter anymore!”

Doctor Erickson goggled with an astonished look: for all those years nobody had ever managed to make him pronounce a reasonable complete sentence.

“He is outside now... out of my head... he can't enter anymore!” Among tears and laughter, Geremy started shouting with all his breath, while watching the visitors leave his shelter: “Find him, find that bastard! Kill him! Don't look at his eyes!”

“Thank you, Gerry.” The detective murmured, before disappearing behind the metal door.

 


	5. Pi

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 2007: Henry has a nightmare. It was himself who jumped from the cliff, some men dressed in black were chasing him. When he wakes up, Tom tells him about his younger brother: his name was Henry.  
> 2011: Professor Whistler is an excellent maths college teacher. He is in the middle of a lesson when he has a premonition and faints in front of his terrified students: he glimpses a countryside road, a still clock, and perceives the last feelings of a victim.  
> In the meanwhile, the detectives receive an urgent help request: a woman went missing and Carter knows they have only a few hours to save her.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Finally I managed translating this new chapter, I'm sorry for the delay. Please let me know what you think of it, because your comments are what keeps me motivated, and if you find mistakes or weird sentences feel free to tell me, so I can improve for the next translations. ^_^ I hope you'll enjoy the story.

2007

 

Straddling his father's shoulders, the child felt even closer to the sky, pretending to touch the swallows with his fingers. He had always envied birds. Free and light, they were able to soar in the air, flee, disappear if only they had wanted to.

He had watched them with great interest during the long walks in the woods, ever since his tiny hand could disappear entirely in his dad's, with whom he had shared that curious passion forever. And even when that big hand was no longer there to wrap his, the man who once was a child would have felt his father by his side again at the sight of every bird in flight.

All his childhood memories came back to him with a lump in his throat that morning in November. Never like that time he wished so strongly to be able to spread the wings and fly away from who condemned him.

He turned to the forest behind him: among the trees he did not see his father like when he was a child, but three men dressed in black.

He closed his eyes and pushed back the fear that made his heart hammer in his chest. Not for long. While the wind was tousling his hair, he drew near the edge of the cliff.

Then he jumped.

 

He awakened stifling a scream. His heart kept hammering just like in the nightmare, his forehead was covered in cold sweat. In the dark, the smell of disinfectant felt for the first time reassuring: he was in his room, safe. The light turned on immediately: “Henry?” Tom asked alarmed from his bed. “Do you want me to have another heart attack?”

“I'm sorry.” he replied, letting himself fall on his pillow with a hand on his chest.

“After your yesterday afternoon's seizure you don't seem the same person. Are you sure you are ok?”

Henry sat up and rotated his torso towards his friend, his bare legs dangling from his bed. “I'm... I'm not sure of anything anymore.”

“Did you remember anything?”

“I don't know.” His light eyes were marked by dark circles. “Everything is so confused, I can't distinguish what's real and what is not anymore.”

“Don't be afraid, sooner or later everything will be okay. You just need time.” His friend replied, wearing his glasses and pulling out a book from his drawer.

Henry watched him silently for a while. “Don't you sleep anymore?”

“No.”

“Is it my fault?”

Tom smiled, closing the book. “Have I ever told you about my brother?”

“No.”

“You know, when we were kids we liked reading ghost stories at night instead of sleeping. Being careful our mother didn't notice us, of course. Ever heard of the _carpet beater_?”

Henry chuckled. “I can imagine.”

“He was mad about balloons, he used to draw them and tell us that one day he would have built one all for us as he would have grown up. A giant red balloon with a smile on her top. What a nutter my brother was. You resemble him a bit.”

“I'll take it as a compliment.”

“It is.” Tom took his book in his his hands and looked at it with a nostalgic smile. “Every time I finish one, I dedicate it to him.”

Henry's smile faded little by little. “What happened to him?”

“One day he went to his football tournament, but he never ended that match. A heart congenital malformation took him away from us. He was still in middle school.” Tom lowered his gaze. “I hope one day I'll be able to accomplish his dream, and buy a balloon just like the one he drew.”

“What was his name?”

“ _Henry_.”

 

2011

 

“Pi is a mathematical constant that indicates the ratio between the circumference and the diameter of a circle.” The teacher took the chalk and drew a curved line that he closed in an almost perfect round shape. “This number could keep going forever, without ever repeating.” he explained, writing down a long sequence of numbers.

“Professor Whistler,” a boy with his hand raised called him: “What exactly are we supposed to do with Pi in real life?” A giggle arose among the desks and the teacher smiled kindly from under his round glasses, turning to his students rotating his whole chest.

“Let me show you. Within this string of decimals every other single number is contained: your birthdate, the combination to your locker, your social security number, it's all in there, somewhere.” He continued, by tapping the blackboard over that number. “And if you convert these decimals into letters, you would have every word that ever existed in every possible combination; the first syllable you spoke as a baby, the name of your latest crush, your entire life story from beginning to end, everything we ever say or do.” He continued, approaching the boy at the last row of the classroom who asked the question, and who now was listening to him intrigued.

“All of the world's infinite possibilities rest within this one simple circle. Now, what you do with that information, what it's good for... Well, that would be up to you.”

Silence fell in the classroom and the teacher limped back to his desk, among the amazed stares of his students. Whistler was undoubtedly the best teacher they ever had.

“Are there any other questions?”

Nobody replied and Whistler kept writing on the blackboard, until he stopped with his arm in mid air: his sight blurred for a while, the chalk started trembling between his fingers and by scraping on the blackboard it left a white line before dropping to the floor.

He closed his eyes and loosened his tie, cold drops of sweat trickled from his forehead. “As I was saying, Pi...” He did not manage to finish the sentence: his heart throbbed quickly in his chest. “May you excuse me for a second...” he murmured pale in his face, heading quickly to the door, but his legs did not bear him anymore. Whistler's eyes rolled back: a chorus of screams was the last thing he heard.

_Trees. Leaden clouds. A sign in a countryside road._

“Professor!”

Lying inert on the cold floor of the classroom, some students surrounded him in order to help.

_Hands of a clock motionless at 3:02. The smell of mold. Humidity._

“Professor Whistler?”

He opened his light blue eyes wide, absent. His muscles contracted in a sudden spasm, swollen veins ran over his thin wet neck.

_A silhouette is moving in the dark. Coming towards me._

The students saw him rolling his eyes until they became completely white.

“Call an ambulance, quick!”

_A blade sparkles in the shadow. It sinks into my throat._

Whistler catched his breath with a frantic wheeze: he brought a shaking hand over his throat, his body finally relaxing. Worn out, his eyelids closed while a rivulet of blood poured slowly from his nostrils.

 

The police department was a frantic microcosm of agents who came in and out of the offices and telephones ringing non-stop. Fusco passed through the row of desks and headed to a glass door with aluminium blinds.

He saw his colleague from behind: he was in front of a map studded with red pins and a board covered with notes and pictures. On his desk, a folder entitled “Samaritan” lied open near a cup of cold coffee.

“Hey Wonderboy, Joss and I are having lunch at Lyric's today. Are you coming with us?”

“Mhmh.” He nodded distractedly, without detaching his eyes from the board.

Lionel went next to him and with his hands on his hips took a look. The pictures were arranged as a pyramid and followed the chronological order. The fifteen faces of the criminals who were stopped before they committed their crime were all linked to the freeze frame on the top of the pyramid: Harold Gull.

“Robbers, murders, rapists... maybe he's just helped so far.”

“I don't know. All I know is that I want to see him behind bars.”

Lionel took Geremy Rankin's photo and observed it. “I would have actually interned doctor Erickson, too: that man gave me chills.”

“Rankin heard his own name and looked at the man in the mirror.” John didn't seem to hear his colleague's joke: absorbed in his conjectures he kept staring at the board. “Eye contact is the same trap in which Shaye fell, when he took the man with glasses by his collar.”

Fusco's eyes clouded. “Do you believe him for real?”

Reese slipped that picture out of his grip and attached it to its place again. “We haven't much else to hold on to, Lionel. He is the only one who recognized him, the others don't even remember what they did.”

“I wouldn't want to contradict you, John, but Rankin is also the only one interned in an psychiatric hospital.” Fusco reiterated, by raising his eyebrows.

“Rankin is raving mad, but he is because of _him_. Have you seen what he's done to him? It was him, otherwise he wouldn't have disappeared into thin air.”

Fusco esistated before replying. “But he didn't even touch him.”

Reese ran a hand on his gray-speckled hair, moving back and forth in the room more and more confused. “I know it's illogical and I don't know how to explain it either, but that man is somewhat responsible. And even if Rankin's report can only seem the delusion of an insane man, the results of his brain scan leave no doubt.” Reese pulled out the medical report from the folder and dropped it on the desk. The pictures showed dark, misshapen spots in different areas of the brain. “The doctor said his brain seemed to be struck by lightning. At first I thought he used electric shock on the criminals to see if they can change personality, but if he had actually done so, they wouldn't have been able to show up on their crime scene at all.”

“Then how the hell did he manage to burn that guy's neurons?”

Reese looked at him with his lips fastened for a long moment. “I haven't the palest idea. I know there's a reason but I can't see it. But once you become predictable, you become vulnerable. Maybe we should just wait for his next move. And above all, he must not know that we are after him: if he believes to be still invisible, sooner or later he will make a mistake.”

Suddently Carter opened the door and popped up. “How is the investigation on Samaritan going?”

Fusco winked and gestured an “ok” with his hand. “We're doing great, Joss. We don't have the slightest clue about who or where he is and the most reliable evidence we have is the testimony of a nutter interned at Santa Rosa's mental institute.”

“Never mind. We've just received an emergency request. Come with me.”

“Well, we'd better grope in the dark later, then.” Fusco concluded.

“What happened?”  
Joss handed John a photo. “Lindsay Dole, 31 years old. Her husband told us she's gone out around 9 a.m. as every morning to take the dog for a walk and she hasn't returned home yet: some minutes ago he found their golden retriever out of the door, alone and barking desperately.”

The photograph portrayed a young, blond smiling woman. Reese observed it for a while: her joy clashed with the current context, and he thought that destiny was nothing but a fickle bitch.

“Do you have collected any clue already?”

“We've located her cellphone, its GPS position signals Central Park but she doesn't answer the calls. We're going there right now, Szymanski is already in the car.”

“Are there any details that could be linked to a voluntary departure?”

“I would count it out. I'm afraid I know who the responsible is.” Carter continued.

“Would that be?”

“It hadn't happened for years now, but there have been 8 other analogous cases before this one. Each one involved young, blond women just like Lindsay.”

“Have they ever been found?”

Carter stared silently at her two colleagues, then she took a deep breath. “Yes, they have. Decapitated and without fingernails.”

Reese and Fusco shutted their eyes horrified. “Oh God...”

“The serial killer is already known to the autorities: William Hinks, a man with severe mental problems. He had been released due to lack of evidence, but the judgement soon proved to be a serious miscarriage of justice. Right after he disappeared.”

“How much time do you think we have to find her?”

“Hinks is methodical, he's always followed a sort of ritual. He has never kept his victims more than one day, but above all every one of them died around 3 p.m. If his modus operandi hasn't changed in the meanwhile, I'd say we have only four hours left before Lindsay dies.”

 


	6. Like Me

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 2007: Henry is tormented by recurrent dreams. He finds himself on a desert island: the only inhabitant of it is a mysterious blond man who seems to know everything about him. He offers him a deal.  
> When he wakes up, Henry finds out that doctor Shepard was injured during a hunting trip. Without being aware of it, Henry had felt it two days before it happened.  
> 2011: Lindsay is held hostage, locked in Hinks' basement. He is about to kill her, when a sudden noise from upstairs distracts him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here is another chapter, I hope you'll read it and enjoy it. If you want to leave a comment, I'll read it with immense pleasure. ^_^

2007

 

Pain and fear seemed suddenly distant memories. The man opened his eyes: tall bamboo trees loomed over him, some rays of light pierced through the leaves. He got up swaying and looked around: he didn't know where he was, nor he wondered. He followed the far sound of the sea by instinct and, moving the branches and the bushes away, he found himself on a coast. His feet sunk in the white sand: he crossed the shore until he touched the cold water, unconcerned about the soaked hem of his trousers. The intense blue of the ocean blended with the sky, until the horizon line disappeared.

“Do you know where you are?” Suddenly a voice reached him from behind: a tall, blond man appeared out of nowhere. He was wearing a simple ivory garment and, barefoot in the sand, he was looking at him waiting for an answer.

“No.”

The young man sat in front of the sea and tapping on the sand he invited him to do the same. Confused, the man crouched at his side and crossed his legs, pending a reply.

“The world is a binary system. Light and Darkness are in everlasting conflict with each other. It's a world at war, but war is an essential condition of its own existence: it's from conflict that everything has origin. This is the only place that knows no conflict.”

“But if conflict is an essential condition for life, this place couldn't exist. Am I right?”

The unknown didn't reply: he detached his gaze from the sea and looked at him. “Do you know why you are here?”

“No.”

“Because you've died, _Harold_.”

He remained silent for a while, his blue eyes still on the stranger's. “No. That's not true.” He stood up and stepping back tried to repulse the horrible memories that suddenly arose from his mind. “You are not real. This is just a nightmare.”

He ran away entering the jungle: his legs were agile and fast, but the branches scratched his skin in his path, making him remember how his body had tumbled down the cliff. He closed his eyes and, already far away, he stopped to catch a breath: paralyzed by fear, he just wanted to wake up from that nightmare that contained other nightmares.

“You made a promise and gave your own life to keep it, but it's not enough.” The stranger had appeared again in front of him inexplicably, startling him.

“They will take your baby, too. _He_ will never stop.”

Harold backed away but a root sticking out of the terrain made him stumble. He fell backwards, his eyes wide open on the man moving towards him.

“If for your Grace is too late, you can still do something for _her._ ”

“Who are you?” he shouted desperate, but the mysterious blond man didn't free him from that doubt.

“I can offer you a chance. If you want, you will have another opportunity to help your family. But at one condition.” He told him, offering him a hand. “ _You have to trust me._ ”

Harold followed that kind hand with his gaze, and finally lifted his eyes to him. At first suspicious, he decided to grab it.

“I would do anything for them.” He murmured.

“You will come back to life, but you won't be the same man you were before. You will have a gift, but it will also be your damnation. You will be able to make your life a means to do good, but it will cost you pain.” The blond man smiled in the end. “Do you want to be _like me_?”

Harold tried to figure out what the consequences could have been, but the only thing that echoed in his mind was the chance to do something for the people he had always loved, and that now were in danger. “ _Yes_.”

“To become so, you just need to call my name.”

“You didn't tell me.”

“If you're the right one, you'll find it.”

Harold closed his eyes for a while: he didn't need to invent one, that name had always been there, already imprinted in his soul. “ _Jacob..._ ” he said, surprised of his own words.

“Remember: the world is a binary system. If one of the two sides wins on the other, everything is canceled. Don't let this happen, find who's like us before the Darkness does.”

“But how?”  
“I gave you a job, Harold. Never said it would be easy. Now you have to go back.”

“Wait please, I have so many questions!”

“There's no time anymore.”

“How can I get in touch with you again?”  
“You can't. If you meet me again, it's because your heart will have stopped beating. Stay alive and use your gift wisely.” Jacob replied, laying a hand on Harold's forehead.

“But I...” he murmured, while everything that surrounded him was gradually dissolving.

“ _Open your eyes_.”

 

Even that time, the first thing he saw as soon as he woke up was the pale yellow ceiling of room 23. Henry hid his face in his hands, more and more haunted by those recurring dreams. He felt on the verge of insanity, but in that moment the door opened, distracting him from his anguish: a blond woman in a white coat entered.

“Good morning gentlemen. I have some good news for you today. The blood test went better than expected.” She smiled checking her folder. “In your case, Mr Gale, your bilirubin is slightly higher than the average levels but it's nothing to worry about: just a few days of hospital stay and you'll be allowed to go back home. And as for you, instead,” she continued, turning to the patient with no identity: “You're being released tomorrow morning.”

“You made it, buddy!” Tom encouraged him, but those words sounded more like the beginning of a nightmare to Henry.

“That's all for the moment. Have a good day.”

“I would have a question.” Henry called her before she could leave the room.

“Of course, tell me.”

“Why isn't doctor Shepard here today?”

“Oh I'm sorry, I forgot to introduce myself. I'm Juliet Burke, the new supervisor. I'm covering for doctor Shepard because he has not been very well recently.”

Henry felt himself being pervaded by a burning sensation in his chest. With a lump in his throat, he murmured: “May I ask what happened to him, if I'm not indiscreet?”

The doctor's serene face darkened. “Yesterday afternoon he remained injured during a hunting trip. It was an accident, the shotgun of a friend of his went off by mistake. We're afraid he could lose his left arm.”

Henry nearly fainted: suddenly pale and covered in sweat for the fear that overwhelmed him, he let himself fall against the pillow, half-closing his eyes with a deep breath.

Doctor Burke saw him turn white all of a sudden. “Are you okay?” she asked alarmed, while the patient nodded weakly. “... May I have a glass of water?”

“Of course. Don't worry, I'll have someone bring you something to eat, as well.” She smiled kindly and then disappeared behind the door.

Frowning, Tom leaned towards him from his bed. “Hey Henry, what's wrong?”

“I believe... I believe my name is Harold.”

 

2011

The dark basement of a crumbling house had become Lindsay's new home for nearly three hours. The air was pervaded by a cold damp and the smell of mould; an old chain covered in rust enveloped the woman's wrists, huddled up in an edge of the room, but there was something else that scared her more. Her biggest fear was that the door opened again and the silhouette of her perpetrator reappeared in front of her. Crying in silence, the woman understood that she would have had to face her worst fear very soon.

The sliding lock moved sideways with a sinister creak and the wooden door opened, letting a blinding ray in.

Lindsay closed her eyes while that dark, slender shape went down the old creaking stairs with fast steps.

The man pushed the switch and a glum light bulb turned on. He took a chair, dragged it with him and sat in front of the woman, a few inches away from her.

Feeling that persistent stare on herself, the woman unwillingly lifted her head: the man was staring at her immobile and in silence with icy blue eyes. His face was disfigured by an irregular long scar that crossed him from his cheekbone to his lower lip; also his tapered hands were slashed.

“Sometimes is good to have someone to talk with. I'm William, who are you?”

“Lindsay.” she whispered shily.

“Nice to meet you Lindsay. Tell me about you.”

Speechless, the woman wasn't able to say a word. She only cried.

“You're not very sociable, are you? What a pity, we haven't much time to know each other.” he said, checking his watch.

The woman shivered, more and more aware that she would have never left that old country house. “Why...?” that was all she managed to stutter.

“Since you don't want to tell me who you are, I'll tell you who I am.” Without detaching his unsettling eyes from his hostage, William cracked a smile that made him look even creepier. “I was only 8 when my mother died. Because of the sorrow, my father became an alcoholic, but soon another woman came into his life. I hated her and she hated me, but my father was blindly in love with that bitch. He would force me to call her “mom”, while she was interested only in his money. I couldn't accept that somebody like her could replace my real mother so I would rebel, but every time I suffered the consequences.”

William paused, then looked around. “See this basement? It's here that they used to lock me up in punishment, it's here that they taught me to be obedient. My stepmother wanted to deal with my education personally, with the very chain that now is tying your wrists.” The man leaned towards her and let the feeble light illuminate his scarred face. “When she hit me, she told me that I would have remembered to be good every time I would have looked at myself in the mirror.” His voice was frighteningly calm, as if he was telling an ordinary story.

“I'm sorry...” she murmured, without the courage to hold his stare.

William's lips clamped in rage. “No, you're not. Nobody has ever cared about me. The world is evil, humans are.”

“Not everyone...”

“Tell this to the child I told you about.” He replied drily. The woman bursted into tears, but William's voice calmed down right after. “Nobody is actually innocent, Lindsay. Evil is in the human nature, it is an essential condition without which we wouldn't be what we are. Do you know why I chose you, Lindsay?”

The woman shook her head, more and more terrified.

“My stepmother was the meanest person of this world, but she had an angelic face.” William let a mocking chuckle slip. “You never know what hides behind the most docile look. She had long blond hair, big green eyes...” he said, caressing her hair. His voice became sinisterly sweet. “ _You resemble her so much..._ ”

Lindsay opened her reddened, weeping eyes wide. “Please, I'm not like her! I would never do something like that...”

William got up and drew near the clock hanging on the wall: covered in dust, its hands were still at 3:02. “Every time they had kept me tied up here for hours, and the only thing I craved was that time passed fast. But that damn clock was broken, so my agony seemed even slower and unbearable.”

The man lowered his gaze to the watch on his wrist: the hand of the seconds ticked relentless, until it brought the hand of the minutes at the second minute of 3 p.m.

It was time. He headed to a shelf and took a bag, then drew near the table. “Don't be afraid, I'll free you in a few moments.” William emptied the duffel bag and the objects fell on the wooden surface with a clang that Lindsay found deafening. Right after she realized that those tools were actually large knives.

“ _I will free you from the evil of this world._ ” He added in a whisper, observing the sharp blade in his fist.

Lindsay screamed in terror struggling with the chains, but it was impossible to free her wrists, more and more scratched.

“I was 17 when I decided that everything had to stop. My father was a butcher, so one day I borrowed one of his knives. It turned really useful, but soon I realized that it wasn't enough. My pain never heals.”

William approached her, clutching the knife in his hand. “The first stab was for my father, because he chose a stranger over me, _his son_. I sunk the blade into his chest, then I dealt with _her._ ” Lindsay flattened to the wall and held her breath. “My stepmother made my father lose his head, and I made her lose hers.”

Feeling the tip of the knife brush against her throat, Lindsay closed her eyes: she focused on the best memories of her life, the faces of the people she loved, but suddenly that cold blade moved away from her skin, leaving only a little scratch.

A thud resounded from upstairs, as if a heavy object had fallen to the ground.

William turned with a twitch and stood immobile in the dim light of the basement, listening. He put the knife down and pulled his gun out of his vest. Taking a last look at the woman, William brought a finger to his own lips and with his terrifying light blue eyes ordered not to make a sound. Shivering, Lindsay saw that man go upstairs without the slightest noise, until he disappeared behind the door.

Silence fell: a few minutes passed before the light bulb unexpectedly began to shine as never before, until it burned out.

A loud gunshot echoed in the dark, followed by the tumble of a body that falls dead weight.

Lindsay repressed a scream and heard some steps go back to her. Without electricity, the only sense she could rely on was hearing: she listened to the creaking of the door opening slowly, then an intense ray of light made its way in the dark, lighting up the wooden stairs and a pair of elegant shoes.

He was approaching her, but there was something different in those steps. A vacillating pace that didn't actually suit William's agility, and a labored breathing.

The ray of light raised swinging across the room: it crossed walls, poor pieces of furniture, and finally rested on the woman, curled up in an edge.

“Miss Dole?” An unknown voice asked, blinding her for a while with his torch.

Lindsay remained still in front of that dark silhouette: she only managed to glimpse the sparkle of his spectacles frame. The woman took a deep sigh of relief, warm tears running along her chin. The man crouched at her side letting himself fall wearily on his knees, and addressing the light on the chains he forced the lock with a picklock.

“Are you injured?”

“No...”

“Don't be afraid, he won't come back to hurt you anymore. He won't hurt anybody else.” Despite being so delicate and reassuring, that voice sounded suffering at the same time. “The police are going to be here in a few moments.”

The lock opened with a clank and the chains loosened their grip on her grazed wrists. “Thank you...” she replied in the end, still trembling for the shock.

“You have been brave, Lindsay. I only ask you a favor now: don't try to follow me. Please, count to 100 before getting out of here, okay?”

“Okay.”

When she heard him turn and reaching the stairs, the woman couldn't avoid calling him desperately. “Wait!”

The man stopped without turning, his torch still pointed at the ground.

“Who are you?”

The man wavered: “I guess you can call me... a concerned third party.”

He disappeared behind the door, leaving the stillness of a lifeless house. When she obediently counted to 100, Lindsay stood up and went upstairs with caution. She brought a hand to his mouth when she saw him: William's corpse was lying against the wall splattered with blood, his icy eyes now empty, the pistol still in his right hand. Lindsay turned, lured by a subtle sound: the telephone receiver was out of place, the communication open. The woman brought it to her ear:

“...Hello? Are you there?” she heard from the other side of the phone.

“Yes...?” she stuttered in reply.

“911 emergency, how may I help you?”

 

Carter checked her watch again: it was 2:20 p.m. and they still had found nothing helpful, except the woman's purse with her cellphone inside, hidden in a bush.

“Hinks is as insane as incredibly alert and calculating. He studies his victims carefully, their routines, the places they visit. I'm sure he had being watching Lindsay for a long time, so he knew when and where to find her.”

At the porter's lodge of the park, the detectives had been analyzing the surveillance recordings of that morning, but they hadn't even seen a whiff of her.

“Lindsay was in the west side of the park when she disappeared. Show us the nearest parking lot, starting from 9 a.m.” Reese asked the guard.

The monitor showed four black and white frames: the guard took the video back with a speeded up coming and going of cars. Among the rows, after a quarter of hour finally a familiar car arrived. “It's her.”

They saw the woman get out of the car, open the door from which a golden retriever jumped out, and after putting the leash on him she disappeared from their view, and never reappeared again.

Fusco shook his head, disheartened. “We'll never find her in time at this rate.”

The monotonous video with no audio showed many parked cars: from time to time someone crossed the road, but nothing more. Until John rewinded the recording.

A man wearing a vest and a cap got off a white van: he opened the hood, pulled out a foldable wheelchair and moved away with naturalness.

Reese observed that blurred face. “Who would go around the park pushing an empty wheelchair? The number plate: I want to know who owns that car.”

“The van belongs to a car rental.” Szymanski confirmed shortly after.

At 10:03 a.m. the man returned to his van, but the wheelchair wasn't empty anymore: there was a person on it, still and slumped over a side.

“Son of a bitch...” Reese checked his watch: only a few minutes to 3 p.m. left. “Check the GPS system of the van, we must track him down!”

Szymanski digited frantically on the keyboard of his notebook: “I'm trying to...”

It took several everlasting minutes before the bar loaded and an intermittent red dot appeared on the map, but on the agents' faces there was no trace of hope. “It's in Kerhonkson...”

“But it's about two hours from here! We'll never get there in time.”

Reese felt powerless: the hands of the clock were already at 3:06 p.m. “Alert the nearest precinct: we must at least...” John's words remained unfinished: his cellphone started vibrating in his pocket with an almost prophetic timing.

He brought it to his ear and answered, the stares of his colleagues all on him. “Reese.”

He listened, then his serious look relaxed. “It's 911. Lindsay is safe.”

“How is that possible?”

John hung up and stared at the screen, speechless.

“So, will you tell us what's going on?” Fusco asked impatiently.

When he raised his head, there was nothing than a deep incredulity in John's eyes. “Hinks is dead.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for reading! ^_^ Please, let me know if you're interested in the next chapters, so I'll keep translating them.


	7. Can. You. Hear. Me.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 2007: As soon as he is released from the hospital, Henry feels more lost than before. He is only a ghost in the crowd, until he notices that the public phones start ringing as he passes. They're ringing for him.  
> 2011: While investigating on Hinks' crime scene, John receives an anonymous call: Samaritan knows many unconfortable truths about John's and Lionel's past.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello there, this is the last chapter I post in English. I want to thank everyone who has left a comment so far, it's just for you if I continued translating this, but now I'm tired. I'm tired of seeing that I spend 6 hours a chapter to translate and revise it and the 90% of the readers don't even spend a second to let me know what they think. Your feedback was the only thing that kept me motivated. Thanks to the few who always let me feel they were still there, thanks for every comment, you made my day.

2007

 

Nobody in Minneapolis seemed to have time to stop in the street. Among those who conversed on the phone walking briskly, who stopped a taxi or who went to work with the briefcase in hand, only one man seemed to have all the calm in the world at his disposal. Hobbling in the crowd, Henry looked around as if he had seen the sunlight for the first time. The noises of the city dazed him: the car horns, the public telephones ringing non-stop, the voices of passers-by. He watched the skyscrapers above him and he felt as tiny as an ant.

Squinting against his short-sightedness, he tried to focus on the signs. He was distracted looking at the shops in search of an optician, when a boy on a bike nearly hit him. “Watch where you're going!” The cyclist shouted.

“Sorry...” he murmured confusedly, turning his whole torso to follow him with his eyes.

The traffic light turned green and the crowd moved as if in a military march: soon the other pedestrians distanced him significantly and Henry remained the only one on the crosswalk. It was already red and he had to pick up his pace: dragging his weak leg with a short breath, he finally reached the other side of the road.

He headed to the subway station, mingling with the crowd, pretending to be like everyone else.

He walked among them, but he was not one of them: he was only a ghost without any goal and any past. Everything he had was thanks to Tom, starting with his clothes: his striped shirt was larger of at least two sizes, the beige linen jacket had long sleeves and almost hid his hands, the empty pants were kept on by a leather belt.

The hostel where he would have temporarily stood was outside the city centre. He crossed a few wagons and passed among the other commuters, until he found a free seat by the window. Someone had forgotten a newspaper on the seat; he took it and had a look at the main headlines: he had at least six years of news to recover.

 

DAILY GLOBE

 

_Foiled terrorist plot: they threatened to blow up New York's JFK International Airport_

_Apple launches the first Iphone on the market_

_Violent fire destroys 254 homes in South Lake Tahoe, California_

_Emerson nominated for the 59th edition of the Emmy Awards_

_Florida wins its second consecutive basketball league beating Ohio 84-75_

 

He closed the paper and set it aside, with the confirmation that the world always goes on the same way, whether you are there or not.

Cradled by the swinging of the wagon and the regular sound of the wheels on the tracks, Henry closed his eyes for a moment.

He had nothing concrete about himself, except an inexplicable event that had led him to predict Dr. Shepard's fate.

And if what seemed most absurd was his only certainty, maybe even Jacob was. He was the key to everything.

He opened his eyes and looked out of the window: there were only a few stops left. He took a crumpled piece of paper out of his pocket and smiled: it was a sort of visiting card that Tom had obtained from a page of his book. He had written the address of his house, accompanied with a dedication.

_If you were to go through these parts, you will always be welcome. You're like a brother to me._

_Tom_

Henry would have done anything to reciprocate his generosity and friendship, one day.

The doors of the wagon opened and everyone got off to the end of line.

All plus a ghost.

The hostel was near now, just a few crossings from there, but Henry never reached his destination.

Suddenly he became aware of the unusual insistence of the public telephones. Five phones were ringing uninterruptedly in unison.

He looked away and continued on his way, but he soon realized that while he was moving, the farthest phones stopped ringing and those closer to him began to do so. He stopped, amazed: they seemed to follow him. _They were ringing for him._

He looked around, then took a few hesitant steps towards one of them.

He picked up the receiver carefully and listened: Henry's eyes grew bigger as he felt something inside him unblock.

“ _Father. Can. You. Hear. Me_.”

An unnatural, artificial voice spoke to him, and even though he couldn't remember why, Henry finally felt he was no longer alone in the world.

“Absolutely.”

 

2011

 

Several police cars surrounded the old country house. Soon another one arrived, from which Reese and his team got out.

_Leaden clouds_ above them, carrying the smell of rain.

The detectives went immediately to the ambulance parked a little further. Wrapped in a refracting golden blanket, Lindsay had an absent, anguished look while a nurse treated her wrists.

“Lindsay?” Carter called her gently.

The girl slowly raised her head.

“New York Police. I know you're still shaken by the incident, but I assure you that soon everything will be only a far, bad memory.”

Lindsay nodded and smiled faintly.

Carter sat next to her on the edge of the ambulance. “Do you feel like telling us what happened?”

The girl looked at her in the eyes and once again nodded. Joss waited in silence as she tried to rearrange the events in her mind.

“He kept me chained in a basement all day long... He wanted to kill me because I look like his stepmother.”

“Why did he resent her so much?”

“She mistreated him mercilessly as a child. It's her fault if he had become a monster, he said he would have killed us all.” Lindsay wiped her eyes with the cuff of her sweater and continued. “At one point he took a bag full of knives and... he pointed one to my throat.” She squinted, as if to ward off that memory.

“How did you manage to free yourself, Lindsay?”

“Someone arrived and he went back upstairs. Had it not been for that man, I wouldn't be here now.”

“Did Hinks know him?”

Lindsay shook her head. “I don't think so. He looked surprised that there was someone else in the house.”

Carter raised her eyebrows. “Wait, didn't he ring the doorbell? Wasn't he a visitor?”

Lindsay shook her head. “We only heard that something had fallen to the ground. _He was already inside_.”

“What happened then?”

“William went upstairs to check, he was armed with a gun. Then...” Lindsay had tears in her eyes. “The power went out and I heard a gunshot.”

“Did they quarrel?”

“No. _He came for me.”_ A touched smile widened on her face.

The three detectives were confused. “What do you mean?”

“I know it sounds absurd, but it was as if he knew I was there.”

The three detectives looked at each other.

“What made you believe he was there for you?”

“When he came to look for me in the basement and freed me, he called me by name.”

“How did he look like? What did he tell you?” Joss urged her, alarmed by that detail.

Lindsay shook her head, humbled. “I'm sorry... I wasn't able to see his face, it was too dark. I only remember glimpsing a pair of glasses. He asked me if I was hurt and told me that William wouldn't have hurt me anymore.”

“Did he tell you his name?”

“I asked him, but he didn't want to. He just told me he was... a concerned third party, or something like that, I think.”

“Do you remember anything else about this man? A detail that struck you, an accent, his clothing... Any thing.”

“I saw that he wore very elegant shoes, those shiny brown ones with holes on the tip. He had a kind voice. Of course he is an adult man but I can't tell his age. I thought he was hurt, or ill.”

“Why?”

“He moved slowly, his breathing was labored, and as he freed my wrists I felt his hands tremble.”

“Do you think it was him who killed Hinks?”

The woman thought about it for a moment, uncertain. “I have no idea what happened up there, detective. I only know that man risked his own life to save mine and he didn't even know me. He just wanted to protect me. He is a good man, and it's only thanks to him if I'll be able to see my children and my husband again _.”_

Carter nodded with a warm smile. “Thanks Lindsay, your testimony is really precious to us."

Silent, the detectives went to the house.

“It's him, again.” A mocking smile appeared on Reese's face. “How could he know? How can he anticipate what's going to happen every time?”

Carter and Fusco looked at him without giving an answer, because none of them had one.

The quagmire that preceded the entrance was delimited by a yellow tape: the three climbed over it and passing among the scientific experts they entered the house.

The acrid smell of dust made them cough: the gloomy atrium seemed to have remained closed for years and the cobwebs were the most hospitable thing that house could offer. The wooden shutters were completely closed, the furniture covered with a layer of dust, but it was its story that made that place a real house of horrors.

Hinks's lifeless body lied with his back against the wall and his eyes still open, fixed in an empty expression: from behind his head, a broad splash of blood stretched diagonally, other drops were sliding downwards the scraped plaster. Holding the colt with his right hand, the man had shot a fatal blow to his temple, but the presence of another man compromised the hypothesis of suicide.

Reese squatted next to his body to examine him better. “It's the first time he kills.”

“I know he's a criminal, but let's face it: Gull only did a favor to humanity.” Fusco said, standing next to him.

Reese got up, severe. “You said well: he is a criminal, and as such he will be treated.”

“Why do you hate him so much?”  
Reese raised his eyebrows. “I don't hate him, Lionel. I simply want to see each one in their place, and his place is in an isolation cell. That's it.”

In that moment, a man with the badge on his belt approached them. “You must be from the New York department.” They shook hands and he introduced himself. “Calvin Beecher, Kerhonkson district. I know you have been on the trail of Hinks for years.”

“I followed his case personally. He gave us a lot of trouble.” Carter replied. “What have you discovered so far?”

“Not much, actually. As you already know, the victim spoke of another man who would have saved her from her executioner. He is an eyewitness and can be fundamental for the reconstruction of the dynamics, but he's gone and we don't even know who he is. For now we only have some footprints in the mud, and according to the evaluation a trace is deeper than the other: he is lame.”

“You don't say?” Fusco exclaimed with a fake surprised tone; Carter scolded him with a glare.

“Detective Beecher, we have reason to believe that he is not a simple eyewitness, but that he came specifically to stop Hinks.” She continued.

Beecher frowned. “What do you have about this man?”

Carter showed him a picture of him from her cell phone. “We don't know who he is yet. He appeared in several crime scenes and gave us a false identity. Even if we don't have any evidence to prove that he has committed the crimes, that's enough to make him a suspect.”

The detective looked at the grainy photo of the man in profile. “I can assure you Hinks' suicide is authentic: it is not a sham, it was him who took his own life and there is no sign of a fight. At this point, the mystery is what they said each other before Hinks pulled the trigger.”

“In none of the cases analyzed so far he has directly committed the crime, but what alarms us most is that we believe he is able to instigate them to do what he wants.”

“This is really peculiar.”

“We have to find that man. By checking the surveillance cameras in the area, maybe we could go back to his position.”

Beecher was pervaded by a slight embarrassment. “Sorry detective, but there are no cameras within 160 kilometers. It's a rural area.”

“And what about the light?” Fusco added, pointing at the shattered light bulb above him.

Beecher shrugged. “It doesn't surprise me that in this hovel the power goes out, the electrical system is old and would need maintenance. It doesn't seem to be a relevant clue for the investigation.”

While his colleagues were talking with Beecher, Reese went away and looked around, retracing Lindsay's experience.

_Something had fallen to the ground._

A wooden picture frame was on the carpet, overturned: a diversion to attract Hinks and distract him from the woman.

John took it in his hand and, cleaning it from the gray dust, examined it: it was an old picture with faded colors. It must have been a family portrait, but the picture was anything but idyllic: a father and a mother held hands with a gracile, sullen child, but the two parents had unrecognizable faces because of the holes that some scissors had left on the photograph.

_He was already inside._

The detective approached the front door: certainly that hovel was not worthy of an armored door, it had abnormal scratches around the keyhole, indeed. Reese thought that even a child with a safety pin could have forced it.

_The power is gone._

John looked above him and saw the blown bulb: on the ground the shattered glass of it. He couldn't understand: what connection did it have with Hinks' death?

_A shot._

He turned to the body and almost felt sorry for the monster William had become: his cerulean eyes were empty, and perhaps they had always been so.

He decided to change room and went downstairs: he found himself in the basement where Lindsay had spent the worst hours of her life. While other agents were busy with the measurements, Reese examined the chains in the corner: there were traces of blood on them, Lindsay's.

“Hey, I've found something!” an agent exclaimed, lifting heavy wooden beams off the ground. He discovered a large ditch dug in the concrete, and when he pointed his torch into it he horrified. “Oh, Gosh!”

“What's going on?” Reese approached the crouched agent: with one hand he aimed the torch, with the other he was covering his mouth and nostrils.

John leaned over and remained astonished for a moment. “Here's where he kept them...”

 

“Detective Beecher, I think you should see something down in the basement.” Reese said, and as he climbed the stairs the other detective came down to see.

“Hey Wonderboy, what's down there?”

“All William's souvenirs, Lionel.”

Fusco raised his eyebrows and scratched his curls. “There are those who hold good vintages of wine in the cellar, and those who instead...”

Carter nudged him with a disgusted face. “Stop it.”

“What have I said?” He shrugged.

John felt the phone vibrate in his pocket and headed to the yard to answer. “Reese.” He said absently.

“There are two people in a house: one is a victim, the other one is their perpetrator. You can only save one of them: who do you choose to help, _John_?” An unknown male voice caught him by surprise.

Reese distanced the phone from his ear and checked the screen: the call was anonymous. As he was moving away from his colleagues, the voice continued.

“It saddens me to know that you consider me an enemy. Mr. Hinks has stopped suffering and other innocent women have stopped dying. _I help people_ , Mr. Reese.”

John tightened his lips: his gaze became suddenly severe. “I actually believe that you are nothing but a depraved who likes to get into people's heads. You manipulated those people as if they were pawns on a chessboard, and from today you're also a killer.” he replied looking around, but he saw nothing but agents busy in the search. _He wasn't there_.

On the other side of the phone, Samaritan allowed himself a pause of silence before answering.

“ _How much wrong are we willing to do in the name of right?”_

Those familiar words gave him the shivers. “Who the fuck are you?”

“Knowing who I am won't be very useful to you. The only thing you need to know is that I am not the enemy.”

“You like to play God, don't you? But you can't hide forever.”

The detective sensed a smile in Samaritan's voice. “I know you, John Reese. Even if you don't want to admit it, we are much more similar than you might think. The world believes we are both dead, we both want to help others. The only difference between the two of us is that I have the opportunity to intervene in time, _and you don't_.”

John clenched his fists. “You don't know anything about me.”

“I know exactly everything about you, John. I know you had been working for years as an infiltrator for the CIA. I know you killed because they told you it was right to do so, but they lied to you and you decided to disappear. I know John Reese is not your real name. I know that you've lost someone very dear to you, and that right after you've spent a year searching for the end of your pain in a bottle of whiskey.”

John listened dumbfounded, ignoring the pang in his chest: the voice retraced in chronological order every relevant event of his life.

_He knew everything._

Dazed, he reconnected to the voice. “And I know for sure that even if you had the chance to choose, you would have succumbed to the temptation of playing God, in order to save your _Jessica_.”

Reese closed his eyes and drove away the memory of his woman's bloody dead body. “That's enough.” He hissed through clenched teeth.

“As you see, information is not a problem for me. The problem is how I will use it, _but this depends only on you._ ”

The detective remained in silence for a while, afraid that conversation was taking a turn for the worst. “What do you want?”

“That dossier that you have endearingly called _Samaritan_ must disappear. In this way, the CIA will continue to believe you are dead and your cover will be safe. You won't have to run away from the demons of your past anymore, and above all you will be able to stay next to your _dear_ Joss. I saw how you look at her, you must care a lot about her.”

John's eyes widened, blinded by rage. “If you only dare approaching her, I swear I'll kill you. Even if it is the last thing I do.”

“Relax, Mr Reese. I only deal with criminals.” John couldn't know, but his interlocutor's lips bent into an amused smile. “Speaking of criminals...” He continued, in a tone that sounded as gentle as menacing: “... It would be a real pity if the precinct found out that detective Fusco has a past of corrupt policeman, and that he helped the HR to cover up evidence of detective Stills' murder, happened three years ago.”

Reese tightened his jaws and closed his eyes, feeling trapped. “If I decide to collaborate, how can I be sure that you'll keep your mouth shut?”

“You can't. You can only trust me.”

John hesitated: he had to take time, but the voice pressed him. “I know you think you're doing the right thing by chasing me, but believe me: we're both on the same side, John.”

“You should have paid more attention, everyone already knows that you've been here today. They'll look for you anyway.”

“This is no longer my problem but yours, Mr Reese. Convince them otherwise.”

“But _how_?” he asked exasperated.

“I gave you a job, Mr. Reese, didn't say it would be easy.”

The call ended and an intermittent beep replaced the voice, while an astonished Reese remained still with the phone in his hand, staring straight ahead.

For the first time in a long time, he felt vulnerable.


End file.
